By the afternoon of Gabriel Allon's unheralded return to Jerusalem, Maurice Durand was thoroughly regretting that he had ever heard the name Rembrandt van Rijn or laid eyes on the portrait of his delectable young mistress. Durand's predicament was now twofold. He was in possession of a bloodstained painting too badly damaged to deliver to his client, along with a very old list of names and numbers that had been gnawing at the edges of his conscience from the moment he saw it. He decided to confront his problems sequentially. Methodical in all things, he knew no other way.

He dealt with the first problem by dispatching a brief e-mail to an address at yahoo.com. It stated that, much to the regret of Antiquites Scientifiques, the item requested by the client had not arrived as scheduled. Sadly, Durand added, it never would, for it had been involved in a tragic warehouse fire and now was little more than a worthless pile of ash. Given the fact that the item was a one-of-a-kind and therefore irreplaceable, Antiquites Scientifiques had no choice but to immediately refund the client's deposit—two million euros, a figure not included in the communique—and to offer its deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused by the unforeseen turn of events.

Having dealt with his first dilemma, Durand turned his attention to the troubling three pages of decaying onionskin paper he had found inside the painting. This time he chose a more archaic solution, a box of wooden matches from Fouquet's. Striking one, he lifted it toward the bottom right corner of the first page. For the next several seconds, he tried to close the three-inch gap between fuel and flame. The names, however, would not allow it.

Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...

The match extinguished itself in a puff of smoke. Durand tried a second time, but with the same result. He didn't bother to make a third attempt. Instead, he carefully returned the document to its wax paper sheath and placed it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. A woman answered after the first ring.

"Is your husband there?"

"No."

"I need to see you."

"Hurry, Maurice."

ANGELIQUE BROSSARD was a good deal like the glass figurines lining the display cases of her shop—small, delicate, and pleasing to look at provided one's gaze did not linger too long or in too critical a manner. Durand had known her for nearly ten years. Their liaison fell under the heading of what Parisians politely refer to as a cinq a sept, a reference to the two hours in late afternoon traditionally reserved for the commission of adultery. Unlike Durand's other relationships, it was relatively uncomplicated. Pleasure was given, pleasure was demanded in return, and the word love was never spoken. That is not to say their attachment lacked affection or commitment. A thoughtless word or forgotten birthday could send Angelique into a fury. As for Durand, he had long ago given up on the idea of marriage. Angelique Brossard was the closest thing to a wife he would ever have.

Invariably, their encounters took place on the couch in Angelique's office. It was not large enough for proper lovemaking, but through many years of regular use they had trained themselves to utilize its limited geography to its full potential. On that afternoon, however, Durand was in no mood for romance. Clearly disappointed, Angelique lit a Gitane and looked at the cardboard tube in Durand's hand.

"You brought me a present, Maurice?"

"Actually, I was wondering whether you could do something for me."

She gave him a wicked smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"It's not that. I need you to keep this for me."

She glanced at the tube again. "What's inside?"

"It's better you don't know. Just keep it someplace where no one will find it. Someplace where the temperature and humidity are relatively stable."

"What is it, Maurice? A bomb?"

"Don't be silly, Angelique."

She picked a fleck of tobacco thoughtfully from the tip of her tongue. "Are you keeping secrets from me, Maurice?"

"Never."

"So what's inside the package?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"It's a Rembrandt portrait worth forty-five million dollars."

"Really? Is there anything else I should know?"

"It has a bullet hole, and it's covered in blood."

She blew a stream of smoke dismissively toward the ceiling. "What's wrong, Maurice? You don't seem yourself today."

"I'm just a bit distracted."

"Problems with your business?"

"You might say that."

"My business is hurting, too. Everyone on the street is in trouble. I never thought I would say this, but the world was a much better place when the Americans were still rich."

"Yes," Durand said absently.

Angelique frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Durand assured her.

"Are you ever going to tell me what's really in the package?"

"Trust me, Angelique. It's nothing."

To describe the influence of Ari Shamron on the defense and security of the State of Israel was tantamount to explaining the role played by water in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. In many respects, Ari Shamron was the State of Israel. After fighting in the war that led to Israel's reconstitution, he had spent the subsequent sixty years protecting the country from a host of enemies bent on its destruction. His star had burned brightest in times of crisis. He had penetrated the courts of kings, stolen the secrets of tyrants, and killed countless foes, sometimes with his own hands, sometimes with the hands of men such as Gabriel. Yet for all of Shamron's clandestine achievements, a single act had made him an icon. On a rainy night in May 1960, Shamron had leapt from the back of a car in Argentina and seized Adolf Eichmann, managing director of the Holocaust and immediate superior of SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Kurt Voss. In a way, all roads had been leading to Shamron from the moment Gabriel had entered Lena Herzfeld's sitting room. But then all roads usually did.

Shamron's role in the affairs of state had been drastically reduced in recent years, as had the size of his domain. He was now master of little more than his honey-colored villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee, yet even there he served mainly as a minister without portfolio to Gilah, his long-suffering wife. Shamron was now the worst thing a once-powerful man could be—unwanted and unneeded. He was regarded as a pest and a nuisance, someone to be tolerated but largely ignored. In short, he was underfoot.

Shamron's mood improved dramatically, however, when Gabriel and Chiara telephoned from Jerusalem to invite themselves to dinner. He was waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, his pale blue eyes shimmering with an impish excitement. Despite his obvious curiosity over the reason for Gabriel's sudden return to Israel, he managed to restrain himself at dinner. They spoke of Shamron's children, of Gabriel's new life in Cornwall, and, like everyone else these days, the dire state of the global economy. Twice Shamron tried to broach the subjects of Uzi Navot and King Saul Boulevard, and twice Gilah deftly steered him into less turbulent waters. During a stolen moment in the kitchen, Gabriel quietly asked her about the state of Shamron's health. "Even I can't remember all the things that are wrong with him," she said. "But don't worry, Gabriel. He's not going anywhere. Shamron is eternal. Now go sit with him. You know how happy that makes him."

There is a familial quality to the intelligence services of Israel that few outsiders ever manage to grasp. More often then not, major operations are conceived and planned not in secure briefing rooms but in the homes of their participants. Few venues had played a more prominent role in the secret wars of Israel—or in Gabriel's own life—than Shamron's large terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee. It was now noteworthy in Shamron's life as the only place where Gilah permitted him to smoke his wretched unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. He lit one over Gabriel's objections and lowered himself into his favorite chair facing the looming black mass of the Golan Heights. Gabriel ignited a pair of gas patio heaters and sat next to him.